


Under Our Skin

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [21]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 100 Fics in 100 Days, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Matheson is a hard man to resist. He has a way of getting under the skin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Our Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penndragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penndragon/gifts).



 

'Fly, my pretties,' Jeremy muttered, tilting his head to watch the helicopter rise up over the wall. 'Fly.'

After so long, the fact of it hanging there as aerodynamically unlikely as a bumblebee actually hurt his brain. He could actually feel his idea of the world shifting underfoot like quicksand.

'Sir?' one of the young recruits said, eyes huge and staring. 'What's happening-'

Hell, kid probably didn't even remember what electricity looked – or sounded – like. It was as beyond them as his pop culture references.

'We have power, kid,' Jeremy said, slapping him on the shoulder. 'All the fucking power in the world.'

He made his voice cheerful, despite his doubts – because no-way in hell was Monroe going to deal with this in a healthy and non-random murdery way. Miles Matheson had a way of getting under a person's skin.

**Monroe – 2 days later**

He should be happy. Monroe sprawled naked in a wing-backed leather chair, staring out over the darkened city and drinking whiskey. The night air dried the sweat on his skin, balls and ass starting to itch. He had want he wanted.

'You mean nothing to me.'

The words echoed in his head, branding him a liar. Here in the heart of his power, he felt as cold and hollowed-out as that boy weeping by his family's graves. He had things – objects, attainments, power – but not one person who would do that for him.

Empty.

His glass was empty. Sick of the pretence of moderation, he reached for the bottle and swigged from it. The black lines on his forearm caught his eye and he lowered his arm to stare at it.

'It stands for both of us,' he said aloud. The present caught up with sentiment and he corrected himself sourly. 'Stood.'

Of course, Miles never had understood the tattoo.

'Why the hell did you get your name tattooed on your arm?' Miles asked, squinting. 'So if you're wanking drunk you know whose hand it is?'

'No,' Bass said. Mostly it was because he, drunk off his ass on that Mick-bastard Mark's potcheen, had told a Bangkok tattooist 'M for Monroe'. He wasn't going to tell Miles that though. 'It's for my family. Living and dead.'

Miles looked sympathetic. It was his standard reaction to the mention of the family in Bass' earshot. He still didn't get why it was important. Bass supposed he didn't want him to. Who needed to know that everything, every fucking person you cared about, could be wiped out in a second and that was it. He had things but, give it a few years and he'd not mention his mum or dad or his little sister with the gap-tooth smile she hated or the even littler sister he'd argued they should just call Surprise and have done with.

It would hurt too much, be too weird. They'd not be his family anymore, not the blueprint of his life, just shadows he might talk about vaguely.

The tattoo meant that it didn't matter what happened, he'd have a mark to show where his family had been. A reason to say, 'This is why I got it'.

'Besides,' he said, forcing his voice lighter. 'I was drunk and a tattoo was the forfeit. Mark ate a monkey head, it was disgusting.'

Bass swallowed and clenched his fist, muscles tensing under his inked skin. It meant nothing any more. It was his mark, his militia and now that he had the pendants no-one would need to ask what it meant again.

Fear. Defeat. Conquest.

He finished the bottle. Maybe there was no to weep at his grave, but he would cause so much ruin they'd come to make sure he stayed down.

**Nora- Two Months Later**

'We hit here, here and here,' Miles said, jabbing his finger against the map. 'Take out the depot and rout the base. Meanwhile, Clayton and her team set explosives on the bridge.'

Nora flinched inside at the casual distance of that Clayton. Not because of any sentimental ideas that lingered from the glossy teenage magazines she used to hoard for their supposed how-to's to happiness. This wasn't a glossy world anymore, it wasn't even a happy one except in dribs and drabs.

It was because it was General Matheson who'd called her that. Even after they'd been fucking a while, when his breath in her ear turned Nora into something sexy and not an old-lady name she'd been teased for, he'd called her Clayton in public. Because they were soldiers.

Now they were again, and even if the Rebels were shying away from admitting it – it was General Matheson giving out the orders. No-one even questioned him. Not even Nora.

This was the first time they'd had a chance against Monroe. The first time they had done more than irritate and inconvenience the Militia. Two months and everything was changing.

So she bit her tongue when Miles said 'unavoidable civilian casualties' and ignored the irony of the newly ordered flags when it had been Miles, not Monroe, who'd banned them originally. She squashed her uncertainty down under conviction and faith and the familiar, warm weight of him in her cot at night.

He had a scar on his stomach, ragged and badly stitched, that he didn't like to talk about and a constellation of shiny white drops on his back from an exploding car in Iraq. 'I was lucky,' he said. 'Others weren't.' Under his hair, just above his ear, there was a hard, ruler-straight line from where his brother had accidentally knocked him off a roof.

She explored them with her hands as she spread her thighs and he buries himself in her, rough, quick thrusts like they don't have time. His scars are like a roadmap on his skin. Landmarks under her fingers that proved she still knew him, that he hadn't changed that much.

And at night she believes it, as he rolls off her at the last minute and comes into his hand. No babies for them, and she's relieved and not about that all at once. Not that she wants a kid – it hurt to much, alone in that room as she wrapped the tiny little boy up in her best shirt, because that was all she had to give him – but it would be something to anchor them.

But when the train comes in early – or late, does it matter now – and the bombs go off under the feet of all those children...

'They were militia trainees,' Miles told her, squeezing her shoulder. They sat shoulder to shoulder on her cot. 'Maybe they looked young, but they were already lost. Taking the train out was worth the price.'

She knew she shouldn't say it, but she did anyhow. 'You didn't think so when it was Danny on board.'

He moved his hand, leaving her cold.

'I should go talk to Charlie,' he said, standing up. 'This is what war is, Nora. People die and we don't get always get to comfort ourselves they deserved it. Maybe no-one deserves it. You either have to accept that or leave.'

'How can I just leave?' she asks, looking up at him.

He looks like General Matheson again, face cold and emotionless. 'You did before.'

Alone again Nora got up slowly from the bed, feeling tired and old down in her narrow, to light the candles. She'd read, give her brain something other than body parts to worry at. Tomorrow she'd tell Miles she was sorry, that he was right.

She couldn't leave. The candle flickered behind her hand, showing her bones as shadows and the pink of blood. He'd never left her, he'd saved her life again and again. Even if he wouldn't say it, he loved her. She had his blood in her veins, didn't she?

Everything had changed, but Miles hadn't. That was what she kept telling herself, and she didn't let herself dwell on the thought it was this Miles who'd made the Republic.

**Neville – One Year**

There was a scar on his wife's neck. Tom was the only one who could see it, a scar-thread just under her jaw. It had bled while they were locked up in their own house, staining her throat and hair with streaks of grubby red.

Julia would rather drink lard than admit it, but for all her defiance she had been afraid. Of the sword at her throat, of what it mean for them if Tom gave in. She hadn't said anything, not all that night, but he remembered the squeeze of her fingers on his in the dark.

That was what he kept in mind when he went in to interrogate the rebel prisoner – a muck-raking writer who'd been spreading their insurgent bile throughout the country. He had none of Strausser's enthusiasm for hurting people, it haunted him, but the thought of Julia's cold fingers and her scar steadied his resolve.

'I won't tell you anything,' the woman said, eyes white-rimmed and darting. Even she knew it was a lie. 'Sic semper Tyrannis.'

Of course, sometimes they told you more before they started telling you anything.

'So Matheson has contacts as far as Virginia?' he said.

The woman flinched and closed her eyes, biting her lips together. Neville nodded to one of the men to bring in the equipment. He reached into his pocket and drew out the pendant Monroe had entrusted him with, rubbing his thumb over the engraved design.

'You're loyal to the Rebels, to Matheson,' he said. 'He's good at that, wriggling his way in. I was loyal to him once myself.'

She opened her eyes and stared at him, mouth softening with a thread – just like that tiny scar – of hope. Monroe liked to play with prisoners feelings, manipulating them till they thought telling him everything was the most loyal thing they had ever done.

Neville was more straight-forward. 'Now I hate him,' he said. 'More than I ever admired him. Which of us do you think he has inspired more?'

The man wheeled into the machine. It had been a defibrillator once, before they had adapted it. Neville thumbed the pendant on, watching the icon glow with a fascination that had yet to fade, and set it neatly on top of the machine. It stuttered to life, dials jerking and probe sparking.

Electricity was just as effective, but so much tidier than knives. It helped Neville sleep better when he finally got home to his wife.

**Danny – Two Years**

Cold wasn't the right word for the bitterness the snow had brought it. Cold didn't crackle in your bones or make your blood sluggish, it didn't freeze your piss in brittle yellow puddles on the ground.

Danny tucked himself way, feeling the aching contraction of his balls as the cold reached them, and thought about just soiling himself next time. He tightened his scarf around his mouth, the wool crackling where his moist breath had frozen. A flick of his gloved hands sent the patrol forwards again, crunching through the snow.

On the left flank Tomas – probably, they were interchangeable in their thick winter gear – jerked his gun around towards some sound in the woods. The flat retort of it echoed through the cold silence.

Shit.

Danny hooked his scarf down, the cold stinging as he breathed in. 'That better have been a militia squirrel, mate.'  
'Sorry.' It wasn't Tomas, he'd shifted places with Hannah. She pushed her hood back enough that he could see the dark curve of her forehead and a few stray curls. Green eyes eyes flashed him a worried look. 'I didn't mean to-'

He held up his hand. 'Reports say this area is clear. No militia around for miles. Don't worry.'

They both covered up again and headed on. Danny stepped around a tree and absently looked up, checking their position. Not long now.

The militia weren't squirrels, more like hedgehogs – hiding under the thick coating of snow and falling leaves. They came up with guns in their hands, snow dropping off their shoulders, and their leader already on his radio.

Neville.

Old fear, old anxiety, clawed at Danny's stomach at the lean, greying man. He ignored it grimly. Tom Neville might have been the first bad man in his life. He hadn't been the last. That made him just another bogeyman.

'Surrender now,' Neville said, clipping his radio back to his belt. Next to the shiny silver pendant. 'Captain Matheson.'

After a tense second everyone did, crouching down and setting their weapons on the ground. Danny pushed his hood back and smirked at the flicker of disappointment that ghosted over Neville's face. They always wanted Charlie. It was lucky Danny didn't have a complex about it.

'Major Neville.'

'Colonel,' Neville corrected, mouth twisting in that barely able to let himself be pleased smile.

'That all?' Danny asked, raising his eyebrows. 'And you Monroe's right hand man these days. Or is that Julia.'

There had been whispers, and Miles was right. Julia Neville's was her husband's one soft spot. Anger flashed in Neville's eyes and he took a step forwards, back-handing Danny across the face. He tasted blood, copper and shockingly hot.

'I see you've forgotten how to hold your tongue since you left my custody,' Neville said. 'I will -'

Danny spat blood in his face. Neville staggered back, wiping his eyes and swearing, Danny punched him in the face with a reinforced glove, weighted knuckles splitting his lip, and hooked his shiny booted feet out from under him. The man landed hard on his back, too shocked to break his fall. Danny turned and threw himself to the ground, skidding through the snow.

The rest of his team followed suit. Danny hit the trigger that set off the landmines, tapping into Neville's pendant to transmit the order. They exploded, blowing snow, dirt and bodies into the air, and in the ringing aftermath people started to scream. Danny rolled over and scrambled back to his feet, cold air catching at his chest. He tugged his scarf back up over his mouth, protecting his lungs.

The militia were down – injured or dead. A few were still on their feet, but they were shaken enough by the explosion not to put up much resistance. Danny was more worried about his patrol. They were wearing scavenged kevlar under their coats and knew where the mines were, but someone could have made a mistake. Pete had a bloody head wound, his sleeve pressed to it and Hannah was leaning on someone's shoulder, but everyone was on their feet.

'Round up the ones are aren't dead,' he ordered.

On the ground the limp, tattered shape of Neville moved weakly, rolling onto his back. Blood soaked the side of his face and his ear was a mangled mess. He propped himself up on his elbow.

'You knew we were coming.'

'Yes,' Danny said, bending over to scoop up his gun.

'How did you know where we'd stage our ambush?'

'Didn't,' Danny said. He waved the gun, indicating the whole mountain. 'We have the whole sector seeded, they just aren't functional without electricity. Or you. It was Uncle Miles' plan.'

Neville closed his eyes. 'Ah.'

Danny raised his gun and pointed it at the man's head. 'Goodbye, Major.'

Neville opened his eyes. 'Is this what your father would have wanted, Danny?' he asked.

'No,' Danny admitted. 'But he's dead, so he'll never know.'

'My son will,' Neville pointed out, voice going careful. 'Despite everything, I'm his father.'

'I never liked him that much,' Danny said. 'Never really got what my sister sees in him. I'm not that kid any more, Major. I'll give your regards to my uncle.'

Neville opened his mouth to say something, but he didn't have time. Danny shot him, blood splashing out from under his skull, and knelt to pull the pendant off his belt. The flicker of blue on his fingers was weirdly fascinating. He didn't really remember before, not like Charlie did. Electricity was still amazing. He tucked it into his jacket and looked at the prisoners.

'Kill them all,' he said. If Neville had alive, he'd have noticed how much Danny sounded like Miles. 'We don't have the resources to take prisoners.'

**Charlie – 5 Years**

She didn't cry. Not for six months.

Charlie stalked across the metal grille floor, echoes bouncing off the curved stone walls, and grabbed Randall Flynn by the shirt. She hauled the wiry, rat-eyed man to his feet, hole oozing from the hole she'd just put in him, and he smiled at her through bloody teeth.

'Colonel Matheson,' he said, then cocked his head to the side. 'Or is it General now, since your uncle's unfortunate death.'

'It's over, Flynn,' she said.

He laughed, a condescending little chuckle. 'It's sweet you think that.'

'My uncle thought you were playing the long game,' she said. 'He thought you were a dangerous man.'

'He was right.'

'No,' Charlie said, dragging him over to the railing. 'You talk a good game, but you're stupid. When you killed my uncle, you gave me and Monroe something in common. He wanted my uncle dead, but no-one else had the right to do it.'

'Maybe that's what I wanted,' Flynn said, digging his fingers into her wrist. His voice rose in pitch. 'You have no idea what powers are aligned against you.'

Charlie leant in close and smiled without showing her teeth. 'Neither do they.'

Then she threw him over the rail, leaning over afterwards to watch him fall. He spun in the air, almost slowly, arms flailing and a fading scream rising. The thump when he hit the stone floor was distant and soft, not the dramatic crack she'd expected. Dramatic or not, it was done. She straightened up and looked around, taking in the vast space and the huge flickering display.

'Re-boot? Y/N'.

How the hell was she meant to know, she wondered wearily. No-one had ever been able to pin Rachel down on the details, she claimed it was too dangerous or they wouldn't understand. Well, Charlie definitely didn't understand now. She ran her hand through her cropped hair, hesitating over making a decision. He had to be going to turn the power back on.

She reached for the Y on the keyboard, finger just tapping it. This was what they'd wanted, wasn't it? Turn the power back on for everyone. Except...

Once she turned the device back on the pendants wouldn't work any more. No-one would have power until they could rebuild the power plants. Nothing would change, the US government wasn't going to pop back on like a light bulb. It would be the same nasty, scrabbling power players as now, only none of them would have an advantage.

Charlie lifted her finger. If she did this, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to undo it.

In the distance she heard the clatter and yell of her soldiers clearing the tunnels of Flynn's men. There was no time to think. Yes or no. She rubbed her arm, fingers tracing the raised welt of scar-tissue that still always caught her by surprise. It never seemed to become part of her the way other scars did, expected parts of her. Miles had never wanted to create a horror, but with the best of intentions he had made the worst decisions.

So...would this be her brand?

If it was, she decided, she'd live with it. She hit the key and turned around, striding back down the walkway to meet Jeremy at the door way. Five years and he hardly looked different, a bit more silver than sandy at the temples. He gave her a started look and handed her a handkerchief.

'What?' she said, plucking it out of his hand.

'You're crying,' he told her. 'General.'


End file.
